Like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind 

Or I’ll be listening to a song and think: “Man, I wish I’d come up with that lyric.”

Like:

“…Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet
Cut myself on Angel Hair and babys breath
Broken hymen of your highness I’m left black
Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back”
(Nirvana – Heart Shaped Box)

Or I’ll be watching a TV show or film and think: “Man, I wish I’d written thay line.”

Like this classic from Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead:

and: “God! What is your childhood trauma?!” (Cordelia to Buffy in Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

Or I’ll be reading a book and think, “Man, I wish I’d written that book.”

Like: Stasiland by Anna Funder and Hollywood Ending (aka John Belushi is Dead) by Kathy Charles

Seriously, Hollywood Ending is like nothing I’ve read of late. It’s set in one of my favourite places in the world, LA, and even though I’m only halfway in, it captures the voices of local and bored kids who have that nuanced way of looking at the world and avoiding themselves thanks to all of the shit they surround themselves with. I love a tale told with sad irony. I love the jaded descriptions of faded Hollywood. Of old folks with long memories and young folks with nothing to do. Of D-listers hanging out in West Hollywood in the hope of being discovered by the paparazzi. It’s spunky writing by Kathy Charles. I wish I’d written it.

But anyway, here’s something I DO wish I’d written, and, um, I actually did.

http://www.litterboxmagazine.com/fiction.php (hint – I’m not one of the guys)

Quick, get that Nobel Prize ready.

Anyway, while I don’t like the idea of an arranged marriage, I kinda get it. And this is something that Insight was talking about. Do we become attracted to people over time or are we instantly attracted to them? I think both. I liken mine and JJ’s marriage to an arranged marriage. We were 24, I was at Uni in the States, livin’ large, and so was he (livin’ large, that is). We’d known each other for 3 weeks, had been dating for 2 days, broke up and then got back together. And then the next day:

JJ: “Lookit Betty, this love is pretty awesome.”
Me: “Totally, JJ.”
JJ: “Well what are we going to do?”
Me: “Hmm. Well, you know I have to go back home at the end of the school year. I can’t overstay my visa.”
JJ: “Good God, no. You might end up at Guantanamo.”
Me: “Word.”

We eat another Sandinos soft taco.

Me: “Well you could come back to Oz and we could get married.”
JJ: “Can we have kangaroos at our wedding?”
Me: “Of course. They’ll probably just show up. You know they’re everywhere.”
JJ: “Ok then. And I already have a ring. I found it in the toilets at work. It’s real.”
Me: “Cool, I’m a simple girl.”

And the rest is, well, nearly 17 years is what it is. There have been fabulous ups and terrifying downs but what I think what’s always driven us is this idea that we’ll figure it out together as we go on. There are no rules. There was never any of this “don’t call before Wednesday” bullshit. No games. As my arranged-marriage pal at work said the other day: “You can’t take anything for granted. You’re learning every day.”

Because we’ve lived a great deal of our lives together, JJ and I have this agreement that if we repeat a story more than 10 years after its first telling, we will act surprised, as though it’s the first time we’ve heard it. I mean, we’re going to repeat tonnes of stories. The thing is, even now, when we repeat a story, there’s always something new to discover about it regardless of the amount of time since it’s first telling. There’s always something new to laugh about.

I’m an old-fashioned girl in some ways, so when this couple on Insight told of their 58-year marriage, it occurred to me that there was one thing they did that a lot of today’s couples don’t seem to do.

[Taken from the show transcript]

JENNY BROCKIE (host):  And Ross, what about you for Audrey, what was that initial part spark of attraction? 
ROSS POWER:  …I looked at her and I thought well, she’s good looking, she had that radiant smile, nice figure, well dressed and I just had that feeling this is going to be good.  And we’d go to work in the tram and after a while you felt comfortable and then we went on that first hike and you can see that we clicked straight away, we felt that we were like two peas in a pod and even today we still feel like we’re two peas in a pod.
AUDREY POWER:    We’re joined at the hip. 
…
ROSS POWER:   And we like to do everything together, doesn’t matter what it is or where we go or what sport we play it must be together.
AUDREY POWER:  We’re never apart.

I think that seems like the key – doing everything together. Not taking them for granted. Not over-thinking the relationship. Not analysing it. Just being with it.

An old friend of mine once berated me for not wanting to take a holiday alone, without JJ, because it makes me such a dependent wifey. Well whatever. I like to share things with JJ, ‘kay. And the result? I’ve been married nearly 16 years. And her? Um, twice divorced. Not that I’m counting.

I think we could all take a leaf out of Ross and Audrey’s love book.

Now, I wouldn’t say that JJ and I are the spontaneous sorts. I mean, definitely impulsive, but not too spontaneous.

So un-spontaneous are we that a few years ago we went through this lovely (tedious for JJ) exercise of writing down things we would like to do and put them in a box for use on a boring day. Have we used any of them? That would be admitting defeat, right.

Impulsive, for sure. For example, two weeks ago JJ and I were coming home from the Little Chalet when we stopped in at the Salvos. We went our separate ways to make the most of our visit:

JJ: ”Hey Betty, there’s a piano over there.
Me:  ”Yeah, I know, I looked at it before. Wonder how much it is.”
JJ: “It’s eight fitty.”
Me (shock and awe): “Eight fitty for a piano at the Salvos?! Surely you can buy a new one for a grand or something. That’s a rort.”
JJ: “Yeah.”

JJ walks away and I keep looking through dodgy 80s fair isle jumpers that I want to felt.

A few moments, and 1 jumper, later.

JJ: “Betty! Betty!”
Me (I’m excited because JJ’s excited. We’re like emotional mirrors): “What it is JJ? What is it?”
JJ: “That piano. It’s not eight fitty. It’s three fitty.”
Me: “Three fitty?”
JJ: “Yeah, but one of the pedals is loose or something.”
Me: “Pedals? Who the fuck uses pedals? It’s not an organ. BUY IT.”

So we did.

A few minutes later.

JJ: “It’s done. But they can’t deliver it today. The driver’s nearly ready to leave.”
Me: “Hm. I want it today, JJ.”
JJ: “Well maybe if you talk to him. Offer him more money.”

Et voila! There were a few scratches and bruises but I got all DIY and found some wood stain in the garage and gave the wood an all-over wipe and it looks as good as new.

Take THAT Martha Stewart!

Lonely.

Wintry.

Empty.

My heart skips a beat.

And then this week JJ and I attended the opening of Julia DeVille’s new exhibition (alongside William Griffiths) at the Sophie Gannon Gallery in Richmond – “Night’s Plutonian Shore”. Inspired by Poe’s “The Raven” it’s a voyage into the artist’s inspirational world of life and death.

Disturbing? Sometimes.

But also poignant, whimsical and, surprisingly, optimistic.

We can only HOPE that we, too, will end our days here with jewels in our eyes.

I started taking Lithium just over a week ago, increasing the dose last Friday, and I’m sitting here wondering when, when, when it’s all going to kick in and I’m going to achieve, what that ad I saw in some American magazine promised me so many years ago – A Better Kind of Normal.

The slogan speaks to me in a million ways, not the least of which is this idea that “normal” is something completely different for everyone. 

 If I knew I could get “normal” would I grab it? 

 Let me define my depression. It’s not the sort of depression that used to get people locked up in padded cells in ye olden Victorian days, nor the sort for which people have (involuntary) ECT, nor the sort of mania that sees you buying a boat and a first class trip to London (that you can’t afford nor want) followed by a black crash. 

 I’m talking about the kind of depression where all of the above are possibilities but you’re just teetering on the edge – a cross between McMurphy and the Indian.  

mcmurphy and the indian

I feel defined by depression and mania. You know, like Winona Ryder will always be defined by the Saks incident (even though in my eyes she will always be Veronica. 

Winona BSI*

Winona ASI**

 So what would happy look like? Would I be satisfied with normal? 

 There are a few questions I ask myself regularly: 

 1. Is there really something wrong with me? People tell me I’m fine. I seem normal. Did the doctor’s prognosis free me by giving the first 37 year of my life some sort of definition or did the definition create it? This is like that old chestnut: Is the table really there or is it only there because I say it is? 

 2. I’m a bit of a drama queen so perhaps I like the attention that depression affords me? Er, no. 

 3. Will this shit every go away? Well that would depend. And no. “It depends” is what I have to look forward to. Jeff and I were walking along Birrarung Marr recently and there was some music blaring from a bar. You could hear a bunch of people singing loudly with the song, whooping and generally having an ace time. I turned to Jeff and said: “You know, I just can’t imagine ever being that happy again.” 

 4. If I had a choice between living a long life with depression and living a short, medicated, life without depression, what would I choose? 

 I often wish that I had more mania than depression and that it was more like dementia than alzheimer’s. 

 Let me explain: 

• Mania can be fun – unless you buy a boat and a first class trip to London (that you can’t afford, nor want). My mania causes me to sleep less, be creative, feel inspired, do tonnes of stuff and dream up lots of awesome ideas. Depression’s not fun. 
• When you have dementia, you don’t realise you have dementia. When you have alzheimer’s, you have moments when you realise you have alzheimer’s. I don’t wish for either of these. I just wish that my depression was more like alzheimer’s. 

And soemtimes I just wish that i could be locked in a room and didn’t have to wake up and wonder about things or figure out how to navigate my life. There’s so much pressure to show up. To be ok. To be nice. To turn it on and off, up and down. To go to work. To do the job. To get up and not waste time. And that way others could get on with things too. 

In the meantime, I’ll settle with antidepressants and my new mood stabilisers that beg the question: what if my “stable mood” is bleak? 

Whatever. I’m off to count my plastic bags. 

* Before the Saks Incident
** After the Saks Incident

We went for a walk with the puppies.

JJ: Hey Betty, let’s turn left here.

Me: Sure

After a little while.

Me: Oh, I don’t think we’ve come this far before. How fun.

JJ: Let’s go this way.

Me (seeing a sign to the Blowhole): The Blowhole. We’ve never been there. How fun.

After a little while.

Me: So, do you think it’s much further?

JJ: I shouldn’t think so. Oh look, a sign.

So we walked on. And so did the girls, whose wee legs are only a couple of inches long and even taking into account that their have four of them, it’s still a lot of work. And have I mentioned the mountains?

Me: JJ, you didn’t say there would be mountains to climb.

JJ: It’s not Mount Sinai.

See, I’ve climbed Mount Sinai so that exempts me from every climbing anything again – hills, stairs, a ladder.

We arrived at the Blowhole and it was lovely. A big hole, in amongst some old mine shafts, that gushes water when there’s been rain. And there’s been a lot of rain.

When it was time to head back, I said: “JJ, we can’t possibly go back the way we came. You know how I hate that.”

JJ ( a little weary): Yes, Betty. I know how you hate that.

Me: And there must be a short cut. I mean, we turned left, then left, which is virtually heading back home, right?

Cut to a dramatic reenactment on A Current Affair:

The trekkers didn’t tell anyone that they were heading out to the state forest, nor did they bring any water or food. They could have died from dehydration but we lucky enough to be caught in a minor hail storm and they were able to collect some water. They did, however, refrain from eating any of the local fungi, which is known for its hallucinogenic and deadly properties.

Your email:

 

Nearly three hours later, drenched and cold, we stumbled back home.

But when I’m alone, the Jonesing gets a tad loud. 

Like the other day, I was rather blue, so I went to that great bastion of fashion in the West, Highpoint Shopping centre. Having skipped breakfast, I hopped into Gloria Jean’s for a coffee and a spinach and ricotta pastry surrounded by the most delightful ladies and their children. As I have mentioned before, I LOVE children. BUT, on this day, what with me being blue and all that, the last thing I needed was a youngster kicking a soccer ball around the cafe. 

Sure, World Cup fever is abound and who the hell am I to deter a future David Beckham or Harry Kewell. 

David Beckham - Can kick a soccerball around a cafe any time. Can also take off his shirt whenever he likes, thanks.

Harry Kewell - See "David Beckham"

 But the kid was neither and, really, it’s a freaking cafe! 

The mother did try her best to deter him. 

Boy: (sound effect) kick kick kick 

Mummy: Darling, I don’t think you should be kicking that around in here. 

(Mummy goes back to latte and conversation) 

Boy (looking around): Oh, it’s ok. 

Mummy looks over at boy kick kick kicking. 

Mummy: (sound effect) birds chirping 

(Mummy goes back to latte and conversation) 

Boy: (sound effect) kick kick kick KICK KICK KICK KICK FREAKING KICK 

But anyway, it was the day after the Australian Coup (as I will henceforth refer to the day that Julia Gillard toppled Kevin Rudd). See, I’m supposed to be happy that a childless sister is now our PM. But I LOVED Kev, so it’s bittersweet and it will take some time for me to recover. 

So there I was, reading The Age when over at a window seat, I copped an eyeful of a man, a little unwashed and rather creative looking, tapping away silently on a teensy weensy little laptop. 

OH! I verily squealed. I wants me one of them – Precious. 

Now, I belong to the Faith school of want/get/have. Remember Faith, the dark murdering slayer that came into being after Buffy died. 

Faith - the bad slayer who got what she wanted.

Faith taught Buffy that slayers  could have whatever they want, whenever they want. Slayers and me! 

So off I went to JB, pointed at the prettiest little thing, directed JJ to the payment machine with the plastic payment thing and voila. Want. Get. Have. 

My new little Asus EEE

I can slip it into my bag and it weighs less than my wallet 

le end

Here’s something I prepared earlier…

So here’s the thing, right: I don’t (really) want to use this blog as a platform to complain about people and things – despite the fact that I’ve called it Betty on a Box – on a soapbox geddit. BORING. And despite being gainfully employed, I will never change my opinion about people having the right to be on the dole if that’s what they want. I mean, my taxes contribute to far worse things – like private hospitals and the mining industry. And really, given that I spent many a day being paid for to be creative all those years ago, I am the last person to make a statement against those who choose unemployment over a job at Maccas. But I wish that the dole was easier to get because it would give the guy who sits at the bottom of Platform 1 at Sunshine station some money to get lessons. The dude is clearly taking the piss.      

I mean, I love a busker. I really do.       

Except for the Sonic Manipulator – he’s too loud and he freaks me out.       

Melbourne busker - the Sonic Manipulator

And the living statues. Do I need to explain?       

Living statue busker in Melbourne

And the freaking bagpipe player on the Swanston Street Bridge. I just want to toss him into the Yarra. Freak.   

And I really don’t like the kid on Swanston Street with Down’s Syndrome. Not because he has Down’s Syndrome, clearly. So before I get attacked with the cruelty stick, let me just say that the kid simply CANNOT SING. He’s totally shit. I really want to know what asshole at the council decided it would be a good idea to give him a busker’s licence. I think THAT person is truly taking the piss. Hopefully the kid becomes a great singer – like the blind accordian player outside Myer Lonsdale Street who used to be shit but is now renowned thanks to a few lessons.       

 But back to my guy at Sunshine. He’s there most days, which is a bummer because we recently had a duo that was all Simon and Garfunkel meets the Black Keys.       

simon and garfunkel - not at Sunshine Station

the black keys - also not at Sunshine Station

I give them money quite happily. But the other dude is mostly always there. I see money on top of his guitar case. I see people dropping money onto his guitar case. I mean, he’s affable enough, wishes everyone a “good morning, brother” or “morning, sister”. But I’ve never actually heard him play or sing. At first I figured I’d just caught him while he was tuning up. He’d strum a few strings. Not a few chords. Oh no. A few very out of tune strings is all. And I realised, the guy doesn’t actually know how to play. It was a total Oprah moment (of the lightbulb variety).        

He’s a scammer. Oh I was incensed. I mean, people give him money to PLAY. Right?        

Well not me. Nup. I want my jobless to sing for their supper. Like the time JJ and I were in on a train in the New York Subway. It’s like being at the American Idol auditions. And you don’t mind handing over your hard-earned traveller’s cheques. (Also, I’ve seen episodes of NCIS and despite old Mayor Giuliani’s three strikes policy, them Yankees still carry guns.)        

I like to be entertained. And like I said, I’m all for the creatives BUT NOT THIS SCAMMER. NO SIR-E, BOB.        

When I had the lightbulb moment, I texted JJ, and he said:        

“Well why don’t you trick him and ask him to play his favourite tune.”        

Yeah, I thought. That’s the ticket.        

So yesterday, the moment he offered his “good morning, sister”, I said:        

“You should actually play something sometime.” There, that’ll show him.  

And I hottailed it up the platform because, ladies and gents, this May not be new York, but it’s still Sunshine and I ain’t taking chances.    

• New York – Where else can you walk around all day saying “hey, that’s my favourite painting. No, that’s my favourite. hang on, that’s…”?
• Cairo – I mean, taking a leisurely stroll in the shadow of a freaking pyramid – THE freaking pyramid!
• Rome – Walking past the Colosseum on your way to work and saying ciao to the Pope.

And so on. And then there’s my hometown, Melbourne. I love it for so many reasons. For example:

A few things I’ve seen in and around Melbourne lately.

Here's a novel idea. Great for locals. Great for tourists. Not cheap, mind you. And there are only a few drop off locations at the moment. Great for the environment, too so I don't REALLY want to knock it. But here's the rub. You have to bring your own helmet.

So, Lonely Planet take heed. Remind travellers to pack:

• spare socks;
• Australian language guide;
• plenty of condoms;
• a bike helmet.

Who the hell came up with that? Fire him. Yes, it’s got to be a him!

A spot of magic. Ok, so not quite IN Melbourne, but an hour away. There I was on a delightful walk in the forest on the way to Daylesford with Yoyo Betty Jr and Peaches Peakaboo and look at what I saw on the side of the road. No wonder we have so many hippies in the area.

I love the randomness of grafitti. Our artists are very prolific. This caught my eye in Flinder's Lane near Degraves Street. Look closely...

This is real determination! Scoring coins in the National Gallery's fountain early one morning. Smiled for me after this snap. Dude had not shame AT ALL.

And another of the Gallery - I used to hate this building but it's my favourite now. The grey flat expanse is austere and quite melancholy in its bareness. Perfect for art.

• I hate children;
• The baby bonus isn’t big enough;
• I’m selfish;
• I’m single;
• JJ and I aren’t in love;
• Etc.

In fact, I really like babies. I’m not used to children or teenagers because none of my friends are old enough to have them yet. Although I am thoroughly enjoying T’Red’s kids, even if they make me feel a tad old (see “the mix tape incident“).

But anyway, if I believed in reincarnation and I came back as a parent, I’d be the kind of parent who:

• Took their kid to the Big Day Out and not make them wear earplugs in the Boiler Room;
• I would ignore film ratings, much like my parents did, all through the horror-70s and teens-go-wild-and-lose-their-shirts-80s
• I would insist they start wearing make up at a rather young age, although I’m no Katie Price;

Princess Tiammii launching her mum, Jordan's (Katie Price), new make up range for kids - seariously.

Remember Keanu’s great line in the Parenthood when he says:

“You know, Mrs. Buckman, you need a license to buy a dog, to drive a car – hell, you even need a license to catch a fish. But they’ll let any butt-reaming asshole be a father.”

But anyway, if JJ and I were to come back as parents, this here video below truly, honestly reveals the kind of ‘rentals we’d hope to be.

Yay parenthood!

I’ll let it be known right from the start that, yes, I did manage to buy tickets to see Muse IN DECEMBER. I mean, how the hell do I know KNOW what I’m planning to be doing on December 14? I could be in Las Vegas (in fact, there is such a plan).

So I planned to log in for the fan pre-sale and that’s where the anxiety started. JJ and I were heading up the country estate on Thursday night. Yes, we have this Virgin wireless dongle for the Internet but who knows what can happen? Can the technology be guaranteed? Will the wireless cables freeze over? (I mean, it’s really cold up there in the bush).

I have reason to be anxious, especially after the Jimmy Barnes Ticket Fiasco of 1984. My cousin Nancy and I had saved desperately. I busted open the money box and we got to Myer at Highpoint and queued outside the doors a few hours before opening. Now, I haven’t queued up for tickets for a long time thanks to the Internet so Idon’t know what the deal is these days but there used to be a roller door and you’d be all friendly-like with the others waiting for tickets but as soon as the roller door had lifted just enough, all bets were off and the nails would come out. We’d slide under that door and run up the escalator to be the first at the real ticket queue and I’d almost piss myself waiting for the slow people in front who picked tickets for some freaking Opera or something. They were ANNOYING SLOW PEOLE and in the meantime I was imagining that all of the smart people had just picked up their phones – a spare one in the shape of a hamburger that sat beside their bed – and would call and buy ALL of the tickets and they would just sell out right in front of my face.

But that’s not how it transpired that fateful year.

Nancy and I got to the counter and we counted out our coins – seriously we had busted open the money box and we had just enough money for the tickets. But not the booking fee.

NOT THE BOOKING FEE.

But I’m nothing if not determined and we trammed our asses all the way home to beg my mum for a couple of measly bucks (which is another story).

These days you just have to hit refreshand hope you don’t get kicked off the site. And you’ve always got enough money. Thank you Mr Mastercard.

But the anxiety is still there. It is. I get the sweats, that nauseous feeling that I’m going to miss out. That every single ticket is going to sell out right in front of my face.

Seriously, there’s nothing quite like it.

So here’s how the conversation went:

The $370 man: So, Betty, tell me what’s going on.

Me: Oh, well not much. I haven’t had breakfast yet.

The $370 man: No, Betty, not today. In general.

Me: Oh, didn’t The $195 man write you a letter?

The $370 man: Sure, sure, but in your own words.

One hour later…

The $370 man (into his Madonna Vogue microphone): And that’s why I would recommend a blah blah blah dose of Lithium.

Me (in my head, not out loud): LITHIUM? What the fuck, chuck? Isn’t that what Kurt Cobain sang about? And we all know what happened to him. Although it can’t be worse than… Oh ssh.

The $370 man: Ok. I’ll have this letter sent to The $195 man today.

Me: Well thanks. I feel better already.

How DO you like them apples?

PS. Did you know that the use of lithium salts to treat mania* was rediscovered by the Australian psychiatrist John Cade in 1949. Yes, a local. He was injecting rodents with urine extracts taken from schizophrenic patients,** in an attempt to isolate a metabolic compound which might be causing mental symptoms.*** But before that, it was the medicinal ingredient of a refreshment beverage, 7 Up.

 

Your email:

 

“Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got
I’m still, I’m still [Betty on a box]

Used to have a little, now I have a lot
No matter where I go, I know where I came from (from the Bronx!)”

Well, Sunshine via West Footscray, via a tree-free village in Sicily.

Those who know me, know that I’m a simple girl.

I don’t go for the big brands. I don’t wear Chanel cosmetics, I go for Napoleon.

And I’m vitually free ofgourmet bling – there’s some Kenneth Cole bling*, Victoria Mason bling* and that (now broken) necklace I got from the world’s biggest jewellery store when JJ and I got lost near Chiang Mai that time – bling* yes, but alas, no-name bling*.

Geez, I do like a pretty piece of jewellery though.

So what’s a girl to do?

It’s Dior.

AND it’s a bouquet of flowers with a teeny lady bug and butterfly (Dior Milly la Floret amethyst ring)

And bunnies (Dior bunny ring)

And Memento Mori (Dior Memento Mori ring)

 At around £8000 apiece, they are unlikely additions to the jewellery tree so… here’s something a little loser to home, and priced lower than the kitchen renovation, with thanks to the delightfully gorgeous taxidermist/jeweller, Julia DeVille (yep, that’s a real animal bone).

Julia DeVille onyx and bone brooch

* Yes, yes, I still use the word Bling. Whatever.

This year, I decided that travelling ACROSS THE RIVER just wasn’t on. Now, normally, it’s the folk from the other side of town who don’t like to cross the river but I’m well-and-truly guilty of reverse classism.

But the thing is, I found a tap dance school right up the road. I mean, how could I pass THAT up?

Well let me tell you how. There was a girl in my first (and only) class who was making some cute moves and the teacher said – I shit you not – “Who do you think you are? A showgirl?” Like it was a bad thing?

I mean… YES!

So that, along with this (below) is why I’m heading back to the other side. Technically I travel AROUND the river to St Kilda, not across it.

I’m a “keep busy” junkie. I’m a multitasker. I can’t watch movies with subtitles because I have to pick up slipped stitches. The footy? As long as I can crochet something. I read about marketing my blog while watching Survivor and downloading Modern Family. Don’t get me wrong, I can sit still for hours. Just don’t ask me to meditate unless I can do the crossword.

Over the past decade or so, I’ve been on a massive self-discovery bent. It started with the magazine (TRM), I then wanted to be a photographer, a jeweller, a roller derby chick, a journalist, a teacher, an Indian head masseuse (well, an Italian version), an interior decorator (that only lasted a day, in my head), a property developer (looked at property, JJ and I bought some), a writer, a craft teacher, a tap dancer, an embroidery artist (yes, an artist), a doll maker, a circus performer, tap dancer, screen printer, jeweller and, finally, a life coach.

It’s been freaking expensive. Because I hate to over think things, I tend to make decisions and just jump into it and go and buy everything I need to be a complete success in the field. But I also tend to get bored very quickly. I took a resin jewellery class and decided that it was an easy way to make money. Man, resin is messy. Community teacher seemed to fit right in with wanting to contribute something and I love beading and that sort of thing. But the bureaucracy nearly killed me. I don’t do rules and forms. Massaging heads made my hands ache, making dolls was fun but I don’t like to make the same thing twice, and so I came to life coaching just over a year ago and I’ve loved it. But I’ve come to realise that I don’t necessarily want to be a life coach. I hate it when people don’t do the best and most obvious thing that would be right for them. I know it’s not about me! But anyway…

I’m tired of it all. JJ’s life mission is simple – be happy. And the thing is, he really is a positive person and that’s what he imparts to the world. People who spend enough time with him find themselves lured into his cheerful glow. But what’s a barren, black-hole-kinda-girl to do? My God! I have spent years and thousands of dollars looking for inspiration. I’ve written lists and I’ve set countless goals, some of which I’ve actually achieved, like losing weight or renovating…

The things is, the more goals I write, the more I realise that I haven’t got around to all of my goals and the more I try to improve myself, the more I realise that I have a long way to go. I may never get there at all! And then what? They say that on their deathbed, nobody ever wished they’d spent more time at the office. I wonder, does anyone wish they’d made another quilt? Another million bucks? Another website? I read on the weekend that self-help is making people depressed. Of course it is!

Seriously, there’s a lot of pressure to be the BEST YOU CAN BE! By whose definition? I cleanse, tone and moisturise but I don’t floss. I walk a little but don’t exercise. I read novels but hate opera. I watch a lot of tele but can’t tell you what I’ve watched after five minutes. I don’t work well in groups but you can call me any time if you need a shoulder. I’ve got fun hair and am somewhat bipolar but have managed to stay married for nearly 16 years. I hate excuses but can lie with the best of them (especially my mum). I have no children but didn’t upgrade my mobile phone for 3 years. I’m always worried about weight but I’m only sometimes skinny. I let my dogs sleep on the bed and love to sneeze with my whole body. I recycle for the most part but I’m crap with water saving. I love shoes but don’t wax my eyebrows very often. I hate going to bed but love sleeping and the last thing I do on the weekend is the big-ass crossword in the Sunday Age. I’m afraid this is the best I can be. And I’m ok with it.

I can’t believe that I’ve become an avid internet shopper. I mean, what about the sensual experience that you can only get from walking into a shop, trying something on, squishing the new wool, smelling the pure leather, sliding your fingers across the surface of a porcelain plate or noticing the resin drips on the surface of a painting.

Well there’s still a place for that but the veritable enormity of products online means that the world is not just your oyster, it’s your clam, your very own pharmacy and art gallery all at your fingertips.

Sometimes both at once. Take this example. I’ve been looking for an interesting spice rack to go in my new kitchen and discovered this:

But they don’t ship to Australia! So I decided to get creative. Who knew you can buy real test tubes on the interwebs? WHO KNEW?

I mean, I know you can get anything, but test tubes?

And then I discovered all this other stuff I seriously didn’t know I needed. 
  

• Shopping trip to Penang. I know. It’s pretty freaking extravagant , but seriously, it’s just that we have no kids. And anyway, I saved us SO much money buying fashion in Asia.
• Red and black cord coat from Dizingof
• A necklace from William Griffiths not too dissimilar to this one (except mine has a heart instead of a gun!)

So he’s pretty good, right?

Well, I have to say that all that stuff is pretty ordinary compared to this year’s pressie on a number of fronts. I mean, he ACTUALLY managed to keep it a secret, and even managed to get Momo and Tim to keep it secret.

When Momo was in town recently after her superstar jaunt to the Australian Fashion Festival, I yelled at her thus:

“Tell me what he freaking got me for my birthday.”
To which she replied:
“No”

 I don’t care for surprises, just like I don’t like to know what I’m having for dinner. There have been many disapproving conversations with JJ that have gone something like this:

JJ: What do you want for dinner?
Me: Oh I dunno, can’t you just decide?
JJ: How about macadamia chicken?
Me: Really? Can it get any more caloric?
JJ: Asian noodle soup with silverbeet?
Me: Silverbeet, hey? Hmm, sounds boring.
JJ: [Big annoyed sigh] Steak and salad.
Me: Hmmm…
JJ: Forget it. I’m just going to make something and you’ll love it.

It’s true. I mostly do love it.

I prefer a surprise when I don’t know I’m getting one. By all means, surprise me, just don’t let me know about it because it’ll drive me crazy!

But it was all worth it this year because BEHOLD!

JJ COMISSIONED A PIECE OF ART BY ONE OF MY FAVOURITE ARTISTS, CHRISTINA GORDON. You may have noticed a link to her artwork on this site. She’s glorious and talented and I love her and I love this! Its called “Yoyo and Peaches perform“. How clever of her to know that Peaches would be the one jumping through the hoop while Yoyo cowers… THANK YOU JJ AND THANK YOU CHRISTINA.

Oh yeah, my birthday’s in a few weeks… He couldn’t keep it a secret that long.